


Data Feeds

by Davechicken



Series: Kylux - Fluff & Angst [153]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9506552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Hux receives bad news, and is not expecting what comes next.





	

It’s there, in the personal summary. Just a few words, and he convinces himself he didn’t even care. He shouldn’t have put the alert on the data-feed., shouldn’t have subscribed to that bit of information. Her passing means literally nothing, because he hasn’t spoken to her in years.

Why would he? She had nothing to say for herself, or her actions. He had nothing to ask her, and nothing to say to her. She donated genetic material and rented him accommodation for nine months, nothing more. She probably thought having him would elevate her station, instead of… well.

It didn’t.

His successes are not thanks to her, they are in spite of her.

And yet, with her gone…

Should he have said something to her? Should he have elevated her, as his father never did? Should he have raised his grievances with her? 

He can’t do any of it now. She’s dead, and all those possibilities he’d quasi-considered, had kept as a possible up his sleeve… they’re quashed. She’s gone. It’s over. He’s alone.

Hux feels… he’s not sure? There’s a sense of impending doom, and that normally means he’s worked out something is wrong subconsciously, like he’s analysed a trend in his hindbrain that his mind hasn’t yet put into words. A foreboding, like at any moment the ceiling will collapse. He doesn’t cry (he doesn’t remember the last time he did), and it’s not like he’s going to over _her_ , but his eyelids feel like sandpaper and every breath in through his nose _burns_.

(Is this how grief feels? He’s never known it to be sure.)

A cough into his gloved fist, and his mouth half-forms the words before they come out, his throat sending messages that it isn’t ready, it’s lost somewhere, he can’t open his lips in case he stutters, or stammers, and–

_The feel of fingers in his hair, the soft, forgotten songs. Dancing on her knee. The taste of batter on a spoon, and the way she always smelled so warm…_

He isn’t aware he’s frozen until he hears another: “Sir?”

“Carry on,” he manages, even if it doesn’t work. He tries to exude an air of ‘you’re idiots if you don’t know how to look after your own duties do I need to do everything myself’ instead of existential dread and the awareness that, one day, he will die.  


He will die, and no one will have subscribed to his personnel feed. He’ll be given an officer’s recognition, but no one will–

Ren always enters with too much melodrama. Trust him to come when Hux is… indisposed. He wheels on him, and his eyes meet his mask, and he feels… a raking, aching thud across his brain. _How dare he read him?_

“Your office,” Ren barks, and walks into it.  


Hux has a good mind to just shoot him, and claim momentary insanity. He storms after him, stomping into the room, ready to chew the man’s head off, when–

Ren comes at him like he’s about to murder him, which of course means Hux backs into the wall in panic. He’s too close quarters to defend himself, and the man has the _Force_ , so he _can’t_ defend himself, and now he **is** going to die, oh irony of ironies. Kylo Ren will kill him on the day after his mother expired, and Hux had so much left to offer the galaxy, so much…

His arms are swatted away, and then pinned to his sides in a bear-grip. He hisses in distress, fighting the crushing pressure, terrified and angry and upset and alone and so very, very, very distressed.

“Hux… I don’t know what happened, and I don’t need to know.”  


“Get the _fuck_ off me.”  


“No. You’re upset.”  


“YOU ARE MOLESTING ME.”  


“I’m trying to - _fuck’s sake_ \- I could feel you from my quarters. I’m trying to _help_ you.”  


“WHY?”  


The arms around him stroke palms over his sides, his back. He hasn’t been held in oh so many years, and the touches remind him of - of - _her_ \- and he doesn’t understand why Kylo would be so distressed by his pain, or even seek to end it. Doesn’t he hate him? 

“I don’t want you to suffer,” Kylo answers, and he stops pinning him, but strokes over his spine, and over his neck and hair. “Maybe I should have asked, but you… looked like you needed this, and I was sure you’d say no.”  


“You think maybe you should look into what you said? You thought I’d say no so you _did it anyway_?”  


“You needed it,” Kylo insists, and then pushes Hux’s head onto his shoulder. His big hands pat and rub, warm and unfamiliar.  


Despite himself, Hux feels… comforted. A bit. Right up until he remembers he’s going to die, and he starts to shake like he’s going to cry all over, and the rubbing gets harder, surer.

“I fucking hate you,” Hux whispers, as Kylo cradles the back of his head. The mask against his own head is awfully uncomfortable, and he reaches up to tap at it. “You won’t even take this bucket off your damn head when you forcibly hug people.”  


Kylo flinches, and then his head ducks down. “You can take it off if… you want. I suppose it’s only fair, as I did do this without your permission.”

And is still doing it. Hux keeps freaking out, then coming back under control. It’s like an insane jump from one extreme to the other, with no way to find a middle ground. The arms stop him doing anything stupid, and he thinks maybe they’re helping.

His fingers lift to the mask, and - head turned away - he runs them over the swirls around the other man’s hidden eyes. Over the artificial scowl, and to the inhuman mouth. The smooth-rough dichotomy is satisfying, and he wonders what Kylo would look like, underneath? Some disfigured monster? Scarred and crevassed? His hands feel the buttons, but then he pushes them under and behind the helmet, feeling the edges of soft hair instead.

“You can take it off when you’re ready to,” Hux insists, and tries to step back. “Maybe a drink or two would… encourage you.”

Hux thinks he needs to get drunk tonight. It’s not sensible, but it will help. He doesn’t want to do it alone, however, and this is the perfect line.

“Name the time,” Kylo says, sounding relieved he doesn’t need to be unmasked just yet. “I’ll bring the bottle.”  


“I’m going to need more than one,” Hux snorts. (It’s probably not true, but the longer he can keep him, the… it will be more interesting. And he won’t be alone.)  


“I’ll do my best,” Kylo says, and steps fully back.   


Hux feels strangely torn apart, but there’s a hope, there, too. And from the most unlikely direction of all. “See that you do,” he says, and waits for the man to leave.

He can still feel the fingers on his scalp when he’s gone, and he sinks into his chair, gripping at the desk. Grief comes, and… he lets it.


End file.
